Gritsone Winter

Sunday morning, 6:30am, outside Senate House. The unlit streets are deserted, we're taking shelter from the steady rain under the gothic entrance of Great St Mary's. Or perhaps it's one of those dry misty mornings, and we're waiting on the opposite pavement, with King's chapel looming darkly in the mist behind us. People come quietly, one by one.

At last Sarah arrives with the minibus, we wait inside for a few late-comers, then James arrives with this morning's forecasts - the Peak should be dry, we'll go to Frogatt. A14, A1, M1 in the dark, Chesterfield with its corkscrew church spire, signs to Chatsworth from there. In the waxing light the twists of the road grow familiar, hills, bare forests and dry-stone walls.

It's cold, grey and windy, but not raining and the rock is dry. Partners, guidebooks, ropes, shoes, and onto a route. I'm leading up a sharp-edged diagonal crack, moving quickly while my hands are warm. With the calm of a hex in above me, I find a rest that lets me re-warm them one at a time, the other elbow holds me on. The up again, trying to be smooth without haste, to top out into full view of the wind. It chills me while I hunt for a belay among the bulges, freezes me as I bring Andre up.

Or perhaps we're at Millstone, an old gritstone quarry where the stones for grounding flour were carved on site. It's another winter's day, fleeting glimpses of sunlight through bare trees. James is leading deftly up a slab, careful footwork judging the friction. Half way up there's a thin horizontal crack, he stops for mere seconds to slot two small nuts, then dances on up to the top. The seconding is easy, no difficult moves, but the English grade reflects the boldness they take as primary.

We make our way down to the car in the 4 o'clock twilight, glad to be warm and out of the wind. Fish and chips in an anonymous black town, neon on wet tar, then the long drive South, changing tapes and fighting drowsily in vain to keep the driver's conversation awake.